Skye
Skye: I’m back again couldn’t resist your wide horizon smiles and the jewellery of your white
washed houses gummed to the summer-green glens and your sensuous coastal fringes.
Skye, I’m talking to you, can you hear me? Only, you seem to be turning your back on me.
Sometimes you stare at me with your compound thistle eyes,
like some deadly insect, which scares me silly like leaning over a cliff edge.
Skye, are we falling out, or is it that we are spending
too long in each other’s company…
tha thu gam chur às mo chiall. You’re driving me nuts.
Skye, are you clouding over again?
It cost me £14.70 to get here
and I seem to have had this conversation some place else before.
Will it rain again? Will it keep on raining? Will it ever stop?
Are the midges coming?
Will we ever get home together again?
Skye, I feel you have a single-track mind with no place to reverse:
we’re a battleground of passing places.
You see, I try and make sense of you, understand your cultural sensitivities,
but forgive me, I’m a slow learner.
Eh! I was brought up in England,
fed on greed and nostalgic spoonfuls of Empire
and now my feet keep sinking into your bogs.
God, you have so many bogs. All that water stored up there
for years, lacking minerals, and then what do you do?
Release the lot in a gush and guilt of waterfalls…
Skye – you obliterate me with your long nights
you turn my head with your sunsets
you make me dizzy with your giddy winds;
you know, sometimes they go on and on and on:
it’s the only conversation we have for days,
and it drives me crazy.
And your bog myrtle perfume is making me ill.
I need a drink. More whisky. I haven’t drunk enough of you yet.
Skye, let’s put our relationship in some sort of order.
I know about the clan warfare, the Clearances,
the painful baggage of a previous marriage;
but can’t we now tie our own individual Celtic knot with a little more hope?
Skye, you are not East Timor; Portree is not Dili.
I know, I know, it’s not going to be easy:
crofting daughter is in trouble again;
she’s being flattered with riches.
You’ve come over all postmodernist in Portree,
and Urban Nightmare, he stalks the shadows in the square
with the latest in mobile phone technology.
Locals are barred from hotels in case we embarrass the guests.
Hey, where can I get a clootie dumpling this time of night?
Huh! Kilt Rock tilts, it’s laughing at me. You bastard! You looking at me?
Ha, aye: I know what you’re up to, standing there, pissing in the wind;
and those lochans so full of water, glassy eyes staring into the night.
The fossils are moving again, I can hear dinosaurs grazing,
I can hear the primordial howl. The lava’s flowing.
I’m feeling sick. I am feeling very sick. Sorry.
Tha mi duilich, tha mi air chall. I am lost.
Skye, I am not going to worry about us any more. I love you. Will always.
You know I really mean it, don’t you? Please say you’ll forgive me.
It’s been a long night. We are both tired. I understand.
You’re still having a rough time with your sons and daughters,
trying to sort out what’s best for them;
keeping the Gaelic going. The best part of you.
Tha mi duilich. Can we just lie down here together, quietly?
I’m going to keep on singing your praises, I promise.
Listen to the psalms that silt the wind. Dè nì mi? Dè nì mi?
What will I do before the next war plunges us
into darkness, leaving only the starlight to hover over Rubha Hunish?
I will swallow my tears and drain my glass and reach for your softness
and put one hiking boot in front of another –
tapadh leat, tapadh leat, tapadh leat.
Translations of this Poem
An t-Eilean Sgitheanach
Translator: Maoilios Caimbeul
An t-Eilean Sgitheanach: tha mi air ais a-rithist;
cha b’ urrainn dhomh do chraos-ghàire àicheadh
agus do thaighean geala mar sheudan
air an glaodhadh ri glinn uaine an t-samhraidh ‘s ri oirean brìoghmhor a’ chladaich.
Eilein, tha mi a’ bruidhinn riut, a bheil thu gam chluinntinn?
Ach, tha thu mar gum biodh tu a’ cur cùl rium.
Uaireannan spleuchdaidh tu orm led shùilean ioma-chluaranach,
mar bhiastaig mharbhtaich, a tha gam chur à cochall mo chridhe
mar gum bithinn a’ lùbadh thairis air oir na creige seo.
Eilein, a bheil sinn a’ dol a-mach air a chèile, no an e gu bheil sinn ro fhada an cuideachd a chèile…
Tha thu gam chur às mo chiall. You’re driving me nuts.
Eilein, a bheil thu a’ fàs gruamach a-rithist?
Chosg e £14.70 faighinn an seo
agus tha e mar gum biodh an còmhradh seo air a bhith againn am badeigin roimhe.
Am bi an t-uisge ann a-rithist? An cùm e air a’ sileadh? An dèan e turadh idir?
A bheil a’ mheanbh-chuileag a’ tighinn?
Am faigh sinn dhachaigh còmhla gu bràth a-rithist?
Eilein, tha mi faireachdainn gu bheil d’ inntinn aon-shligheach’s gun àite ann dhut dol air ais:
‘s e th’ annainn blàr de dh’àiteachan-seachnaidh.
Bheil thu faicinn, tha mi feuchainn ri do thuigsinn, cùram do dhualchais a thoirt fa-near:
ach thoir dhomh mathanas, tha mi mall gu ionnsachadh:
Eh! Chaidh mo thogail ann an Sasainn,
air mo bhiathadh air sannt agus spàintean cianalais na h-ìmpireachd,
‘s a-nis tha mo chasan a’ dol fodha nad bhoglaichean.
A Dhia, ‘s ann agaibh a tha na boglaichean. A h-uile boinne uisge a tha
sin air a stòradh,airson bliadhnaichean, a dhìth mhèinnearan, ‘s an uair sin dè a nì thu?
Leigidh tu às e ann am spùt is ciont de dh’easan…
Eilein – tha thug am sgùradh às led oidhcheannan fada
ga mo chur tuathal led iomadh dol fodha grèine
gam fhàgail luaireanach le tuainealaich do ghaothan;
a bheil fhios agad, uaireannan leanaidh tu ort is ort is ort:
‘s e an aon chòmhradh a th’ againn fad làithean,
‘s tha e gam chur às mo chiall.
‘S tha cùbhrachd do roid gam dhèanamh tinn.
Feumaidh mi deoch. Tuilleadh uisge-beatha. Cha do dh’òl mi mo leòr dhìot fhathast.
Eilein Sgitheanaich: dèanamaid seòrsa de dhealbh shlàn de ar càirdeas:
tha fios a’m mu chogaidhean cinnidh, na Fuadaichean,
an trom-uallach a ghiùlain thu bho phòsadh eile;
ach nach urrain dhuinn a-nis ar snaidhm Ceilteach fhìn a cheangal le beagan a bharrachd dòchais?
Eilein Sgitheanaich: cha tusa Timor an Ear; chan e Port Rìgh Dili.
Tha fhious a’m, tha fhios a’m, cha bhi e furasta:
tha nighean na craite ann an càs a-rithist
ri linn brosgal a’ bheairteis.
Tha Port Rìgh air fàs cho that-ùr-nodha
agus Trom-laighe a’ Bhaile-mhòir, e ag èaladh ann am
faileasan na ceàrnaig leis an teicneòlas fòn-làimhe as ùire.
Muinntir an àite toirmisgte bho thaighean-òsta air eagal nàire a chur air na h-aoighan.
Haoi, càit am faigh mi clootie dumpling aig an àm seo a dh’oidhche?
Huh! Creag an Fhèilidh a’ dol cam, a’ magadh orm. A dhonais! Bheil thu coimhead ormsa?
Ha, aidh: tha fhios a’m dè tha thu ris, nad sheasamh an sin, a’ mùn an aghaidh na gaoithe;
agus na lochain cho làn de dh’uisge, sùilean glainne stàrr-shùileach ris an oidhche.
Tha na fosailean air ghluasad a-rithist, cluinnidh mi na dìneasairean ag ionaltradh,
cluinnidh mi an ulfhart àrsaidh. Tha an làbha a’ sruthadh.
Tha mi faireachdainn tinn. Uabhasach tinn. Duilich.
Tha mi duilich, tha mi air chall. I am lost.
Eilein, chan eil dragh gu bhith orm tuilleadh mu ar deidhinn. Tha gaol agam ort. Bithidh gu bràth.
Tha fhios agad gu bheil mi ga chiallachadh, nach eil? Siuthad, can rium gun toir thu mathanas dhomh.
Tha an oidhche air a bhith fada. Tha an dithis againn sgìth. Tha mi a’ tuigsinn.
Tha do nigheanan ‘s do mhic a’ toirt dùbhlan dhut fhathast,
feuchainn ris an rud as fheàrr a dhèanamh dhaibh;
a’ Ghàidhlig a chumail a’ dol. A’ chuid as fheàrr dhìot,
I’m sorry. Am foad sinn dìreach laighe sìos an seo le chèile, gu socair?
Cumaidh mi orm gad luaidh, tha mi ‘gealltainn.
Èist ris na sailm a tha nan dust anns a’ ghaoith. Dè nì mi? Dè nì mi?
Dè a nì mi mus sguab an ath chogadh sinn
dhan dorchadas, a’ fàgail dìreach soillse reul os cionn Rubha Hùnais?
Sluigidh mi mo dheòir ‘s traoghaidh mi a’ ghlainne ‘s ruigidh mi airson do thaobh caoin
‘s cuiridh mi bròg coiseachd air beulaibh na tèile –
tapadh leat, tapadh leat, tapadh leat.
About this poem
This poem was included in Best Scottish Poems 2009. Best Scottish Poems is an online publication, consisting of 20 poems chosen by a different editor each year, with comments by the editor and poets. It provides a personal overview of a year of Scottish poetry. The editor in 2009 was Andrew Greig.
Editor's comment:
I like the completely fresh and unexpected tone of this. Lyrical, caustic, funny, tender, ironic and heartfelt. The collection from which it comes enacts the dialogue of two languages, two cultures, one place, part of our place. Very, very interesting. Kevin MacNeill has been making similar forays.
Authors' notes:
Mark O Goodwin:
Allen Ginsberg's poem 'America' was the starting point for this poem, but it soon gathered together other ingredients of island life – as rich a pudding to satisfy Maoilios's appetite as I could make it. And I tried to make it feel a lived and loved place with all the confusions that an incomer might have, especially when feeling a Gaelic word or two in the mouth for the first time. Also, islands are often the crucible of larger political and economic forces, which is why there is a reference to Timor with its history of bitter conflicts and religious divisions.
You can visit the landmarks mentioned in the poem, see the places where the dinosaur bones and footprints were discovered, and walk to the end of Rubha Hunish, the most northerly point on Skye, and look out over the Minch, to Lewis and Harris, to infinity.
Maoilios Caimbeul:
'Dà Thaobh a' Bhealaich / The Two Sides of the Pass' - a poetic conversation / collaboration between a Skyeman from Skye and an Englishman on Skye. Where would it lead? We hadn't been far into the conversation when the poem 'Skye' arrived. I was overjoyed. It captured the raison d'être of our endeavour. Let me explain.
I believe we all carry the sensibilty of our culture / upbringing with us wherever we go. How would a Devonian – not of the Palaeozoic! – sensibility interact with a Gaelic sensibility / A Gael who was on his sacred ground, as it were.
The idea of the drunk speaking, redolent of MacDiarmid's famous poem, gave Mark the freedom to speak freely. Because the language is demotic, it was much easier to translate than some of his other poems. With verve it captures what a person coming to live on Skye might feel, the heady mix of negative and positive.
